


Coup d'Etat by the Second Rank

by tirraterra



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Dragons, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pern, Too many characters, Weyr Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirraterra/pseuds/tirraterra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hariel is the second child of Lord James and Lily Potter of Hallow Hold; reticent, oblivious, and having cloistered himself within his rooms for most of his life to pursue all manner of strange and unusual hobbies, his daily goals consist of finishing books and puzzles and avoiding his voracious, blazing older sister. </p><p>The Search party for gold Astreth's new clutch is very, very unwelcome, and the prideful, pure-blooded live-in candidates at Hogwarts Weyr aren't making it any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coup d'Etat by the Second Rank

**Author's Note:**

> Very persistent plunny; Hariel (or Harry) is to be the focal point of the monstrosity, if it doth continue to grow, but there are too many fun characters in the HP universe for me not to involve their POVs.

Hariel had lived in Hallow Hold since the day of his birth, and in the many years that had passed since that generally forgettable and altogether unremarkable day, it had never lessened in its unconscious busyness. The people of the hold sensed nothing on the surface, but beneath every flitting hand and tromping foot, piles of linens and embroidery palettes, chefs’ dishes and tombs of history, there ran a current of energy that demanded action, adherence to commands, and the sweat and rush of winds that follows an entrance or an exit of persons of any varying significance from a room. It had been this way since Hariel was born, and on the dawning breath of cloudy weather on his fourteenth birthday, the current remained.

The Lady Holder, on this fortuitous day, had taken her place center-stage in the dining hall, hair done up in towering curls and teal beads set against the scarlet strands that had resolutely refused the silver décor appropriate to her age, much as the woman refused her age herself. A tightly knotted bodice of dark blue and intricate beading in green brought out her regal features foremost, in a bright manner appropriate to the early hour. This tact, managed only because of the excellent dresser and stewardess the Lady Holder happened to employ, was not reflected in the dressing of the second female at the table. The daughter of the Lady Holder, oldest heir to the Potter family, sat next to her mother on the right, decked in vibrant and fiery garments of orange and a terrible ochre, with a bust line dipping towards indecency and heavy gold chains looping about her neck to throttle what delicacy could be contrived of her inherited facial features. 

The daughter’s name was Dorea, for her paternal grandmother, and, perched as she was next to the well-beloved Lady Holder of Hallow Hold, it was readily apparent that first, she was dearly adored by her mother, who was lavishing attention on the girl and demanded constantly that the drudges do the same, and that second, that adoration extended to an unwise level of independence being permitted of Dorea, evident in the outrageous choice of garb as well as the following conversations that took place often over the breakfast table between her and her companions in the raucous tone of one unused to reprimand. 

“Mother, stop it! Stop—no, quit, I’ll fetch it myself, stop bothering about it!” Dorea clutched the large cluster of flowers and ribbons in her hair in defence, fending off the Lady Holder’s probing fingers and reaching for the butter distractedly. “I like the sun flowers, they do fantastic things for my complexion—and they’re a perfectly fine size. No, stop it! Daddy—”

“Lily, my darling,” The Lord Holder leaned over from his wife’s left side and caught one of her hands, kissing the fingertips soothingly. “Let Dorea do what she wants, it’s perfectly adorable.”

“She’s not a baby, I just want to—no, Dorea, let me just change out the yellow—wait…” It took the combined efforts of the Lord Holder, Dorea’s evasion, and a strategic arrival of the tea to set the Lady Holder off her path, but she sullenly accepted the cream nonetheless. “Dorea, maybe you should let Lucille—” Lucille Granger was the Lady’s dresser, “pick out your dresses later. She’s got a lovely eye, and I’m sure she won’t bother with your bodice lace like your last stylist.”

Dorea sank her teeth into a peach tart, and refused to respond until halfway through chewing. “I hate your stuffy dressers, Mother, and I won’t have them near me. My outfits are lovely—are you saying I don’t look pretty enough like this? Eh?”

The Lady Holder waved her daughter apologetically and visibly deflated, returning to her cup of tea while Lord Holder James Potter patted her on the hand and didn’t bother looking up from his plate of eggs.

The meal continued for a few moments, until an older girl rushed through one of the side doors and frantically waved at Dorea, signaling her over with a look of glee on her face that often heralded gossip in the Hold. Dorea caught her eye and check her parents’ occupations—distracted—and then slyly slid off her chair while her mother leaned forward to pour out a jug of klah. Pella Polkiss was an imminent busybody, and one Dorea relied on for a constant stream of information. “What, what Pella? Your face is splitting from your teeth, spit it out!” She whispered fervently as she ducked behind the half wall surrounding the dais the Lord Holder’s dining table was situated on. Pella tugged her a little farther, cheeks flushed and a glint in her eyes.

“Guess what Steffy told me; guess, guess! Oh, Dorea, I thought he was lyin’, but he swears old Griphook said so, right in front of ‘im!” Griphook worked in the treasury of Hallow Hold, and served as a manager of nearly all of its affairs. As a source of information, he was reliable, thought Stefan ‘Steffy’ Figg was not—too many rolls in the hay with Pella had reduced his reputation something fierce. But with Griphook as a source, credibility had returned enough for Pella to value him.

Dorea gripped her friend’s arm encouragingly, and Pella suddenly sighed and slumped against the cold stonewalls of the hold, leaning back on a tapestry of Lord Holder Charlus. “Oh, Dorea, the dragonriders are comin’! They’re showin’ up at Hallow soon!” If Dorea had any expectations, this far exceeded them. She dropped Pella’s arm in shock, and rocked back her heels. 

“Why? For what—has there been a problem at the Weyr? It’s not—” Her voiced dropped and wide hazel eyes widened, “Not, I mean, there’s already been one Search this year…surely they’re not coming back for that?” 

Pella shook her head. “I don’t know, I just know that Steffy heard Griphook clearing off the battlements and front receiving grounds for dragons, and, y’know, everyone’s running around charring up as much of the weeds as possible!” Pella giggled, for whenever a Hold got a visit from the Weyr, inevitably the mad scramble to fix up the ‘thread-free’ standards to Weyr regulation began.

Dorea let her eyes drift to the side. The tapestry of her grandfather frowned down at her and provided no answers. “Might be tithe business. A change in proportions, and such.” Dismissive as she was towards her tutors’ lessons on Hold management, she always paid attention when the Weyrs came up in discussion. Everyone did. 

“Go ask your father,” Pella urged. “Go check and see what he knows, I’m sure a drum or a messenger arrived earlier. How else would Griphook know?” Dorea nodded absentmindedly and half-turned, Pella giving her a light shove. The daughter of Lord Holder Potter adjusted her bodice top and tightened the belt around her ribcage; the dress was borrowed from another girl whose brother worked as a Journeyman Weaver, and sent her unusually dyed fabrics every few sevendays for her sewing practice. Dorea adored the twisting figures in gold and white, wrapped around her hips. They looked vaguely like writhing fish, or smoke tendrils of an aggressive and clumsy nature, while the rest of the dress’s fabric remained staunchly orange, with vermillion soaked into corners. Lady Holder Lily Potter found it repulse; Dorea found it one of the most well worn pieces in her collection. 

“Going, going.” She muttered, and bustled as casually back to the raised dining area as she was able, garbed in a limp bonfire. Her father caught her eye as she slid into the heavy oak chair, winking at her mischievous exit and entrance—while loved by her mother as a fellow female and heir, Dorea shared the same soul as the Lord Holder, and he had never laid a finger of retribution upon her for anything he deemed humorous in nature, and therefore benign. The Lady Holder popped a grape into her mouth with only slight attitude, but gave no other response to her daughter’s return.

Dorea managed to fidget silently for another ten minutes, inhaling a plate of biscuits and two cups of sweetened klah before curling around her mother’s slim frame to peek over slyly, a smile of coy proportions lifting her cheeks into perky apples. “Daddy?”

“Yes, my wildflower.”

“Is there anything of particular import we are expecting today at the hold? Because Pella and I would like to walk over to the little lake and spend the day—” Lord James held up an prompt hand, and Dorea’s mouth snapped shut in anticipation. The Lord Holder, with a certain degree of hidden relish, calmly took another bight of buttered bread, smoothed his tunic and robes, and altogether took his sweet time before fully answering his daughter’s question. As casually as ever, he reached for the water pitcher. 

“My dear, I will actually have to ask you and your brother to remain at the Hold for the entirety of today.” Dorea sniffed at the mention of her sibling, a year her junior and a contrast to every point of her existence. “We will be having visitors, and you and Hariel shall be required to attend. Don’t looks so anticipatory—“ He advised, seeing Dorea’s hungry expression. “All of the children in the Hold will be in attendance.”

“Does that mean they are Searching?” Her grip on the edge of the table sharpened considerably, and an altogether foreign ambiance overtook her features, eyes smoldering at an image far into the future and breath held tight in her chest. Something burst in her chest at her father’s nod, as it did every time a Search had been called during her life. To know that dragonriders were coming to their Hold, that the beasts were soon to be settled in their courtyard and their handsome riders eating at Hallow Hold’s tables, filled her stomach with heat and her throat with an aching whine.

“Indeed. It seems the last Search was for the senior queen’s most recent clutch, while today they will be looking for candidates for the younger one—Astreth, whose rider is Lady Sinistra. She clutched much earlier than expected, and it was shockingly large, enough so that the reliable number of weyr-bred candidates is not sufficient.”

Dorea’s eyes burned almost visibly in her skull. 

“Which is why I need you to fetch your brother, my dear, because they’re expected to get here in but a few hours.” Dorea nodded rapidly twice before freezing up at the meaning of the words. Her face reflected quite suddenly a strong dislike, and her mouth snapped open immediately.

“Why does Hariel have to go? Surely that’s unnecessary! He’s never been singled out in any of the previous Searches; I’ve been pulled out at every one of them. Surely, shouldn’t,” Dorea suddenly leaned forward and, forcing her mother to lean precariously over the table and sigh into her teacup, continued in the most wheedling tone, “Shouldn’t we save the honored riders’ time? Let us just present the most likely candidates. I know which children they are, we’re always pulled out together for further introspection. Hariel,” The twist in her voice spoke volumes of her opinion of her younger brother, “Needn’t be summoned today.”

Lord Potter’s face slid into a slight frown, and he chided her warmly. “Now, now, poppy, you know we follow tradition. And the tradition of the Weyrs is to present all candidates for every Search. No one’s certain how candidates are chosen—“

“—So we have to make sure the hatchlings have every candidate they desire, I know. Fine.” Dorea crossed her arms in irritation and leaned back into her seat, turning her shoulder towards the Lord Potter’s still smiling visage. “It’s still a stupid, unnecessary tradition.”

“But tradition it is.” She started in surprise at her mother’s sudden interjection into the conversation, and then wilted at the look of unwieldiness on the older women’s face as she stared down at her daughter. “We’ll not hear any more of these additions of yours to such an important and formal process.”

Dorea made a sound of distressed misery, and sidled quickly out of her seat, snatching a biscuit off the tray in the same movement. “Right, well, excuse me then, honored parents. I’m off to prepare for the dragonriders.” She started off the dais, a whirl of orange and white, and firmly ignored her mother’s urgent reminder, “And fetch your brother for me!” Thread would gobble her up before she willingly went near that spineless, prissy excuse of a boy. Maybe, if he emerged from his rooms for once in a blue moon, he’d finally be let in on the news of the Hold through the gossipy servants and figure out what was happening.


End file.
